Walk Alone
by LoveTheCoat
Summary: A short ficlet focusing on Brian's POV of the events at the end of episode 2.20. Rated M for language. Any errors are mine.


Knowing was different than seeing, Brian got that now.

Knowing Justin had found someone; someone he saw more than once, someone he kissed on the lips, someone Brian knew he was being compared too; someone that had prompted Michael to warn him that he was losing Justin…well, it wasn't threatening. It was intangible. Like a bad rumor that if ignored would go away like all bad rumors tended to do.

Brian wasn't an idiot. He knew how Justin felt about him, partly because the kid told him and showed him nearly every day, and partly because he could see it in his eyes when they fucked; lust, passion, admiration, love. It was easy for Brian to assume Justin's feelings would never change, never go away, and so he ignored all the warning signs and lived his life as usual, disregarding the sadness that had started clouding Sunshine's face.

He couldn't overlook it completely, though, because there was one tiny, nagging part of his brain that threatened him with ideas of Justin leaving and so Brian found himself wondering where Justin had met this mysterious person, and who he was. It didn't take long for him to connect the violinist on the CD Justin played day and night, to the mystery man. When he had a face, and name, it was no longer a rumor. Then, even after he'd sought out the kid and sat across from him in the Liberty Diner, wearing a mask of nonchalance while silently suffering from a dull ache that had settled in his gut, he still didn't really believe it. In what world would Justin chose this poor, unkept kid over him, Brian Kinney? But when he watched Justin's face as he saw Brian sitting opposite his new boy, he knew he was precariously close to losing him. Hope rekindled when Justin came back to the loft, but things were different. In hindsight, he knew then…he just didn't believe it, still.

When he saw them together, kissing in the middle of Babylon, in the middle of the Rage comic-release party that he'd organized and paid for…that was when it became fully real. That was when the dull ache that had been lingering for days and day, the dull ache that had been easy to pass off as indigestion, had turned into a hot knife twisting in his gut. That was when he realized that his self-destructive behavior had actually cost him one of the few good things in his life; one of the few people who could, and did, love him. Stabs of piercing pain shot through his body as he watched his young lover kiss and touch another man in a way only Brian had done before.

Pulling off the Rage mask he thought for a moment that it would clear the view from his vision, but it didn't. So Brian allowed himself a few seconds to feel the pain. He allowed himself to acknowledge that he did love Justin and that his heart ached at the thought of going back to the loft and sleeping alone. Sex was sex for Brian – a fucking pleasure. But Justin and his presence in his life had become more than that. Justin represented comfort, romance (what little Brian would allow anyway), respect, attraction.

Home.

Love.

FUCK.

This was why Brian didn't do love. It didn't last, and caused pain, even if it was brief.

He didn't pretend that he wasn't to blame, in fact he took on the full responsibility. He knew what Justin wanted from him. Monogamy, commitment, romance, a declaration of love. A part of Brian wanted to give him those things, because nothing made Brian feel as good as making Justin happy did. But he couldn't, or wouldn't. He wasn't sure which.

He had sensed Justin going; he'd been going for a few weeks now. Brian thought a part of him must have pushed him away completely. A part of him knew that Justin would be happier with a man who could commit, and be romantic, and tell him he loved him. So in a way, he was still taking care of Justin, by letting him go. But that was bullshit.

Goddamn it hurt so much.

Brain watched as Justin walked out. Left. He could sense the others watching him. Gauging his reaction. The cynic in him knew they were waiting for him to cry, or chase after Justin.

FUCK 'EM. They would judge him no matter what he did.

Brian slid the Rage mask back over his face – thankful for the safety of the cheap mask, allowing him to hide. Brian felt sick, and defeated. The piercing pain in his gut was fading, but still there. He moved to dance, thankful there was no shortage of hot guys willing to be his partner, even though all he wanted to do was leave.

When he felt the wetness leak from around his eyes he was once again thankful for the mask. Because no one should ever see Brian Kinney cry. And no one ever would.


End file.
